Any parent of young kids knows that the bed time routine is a deeply complex and ever changing family ritual.Shiloh is our good sleeper. After a cold baba, snuggles, and Somewhere Over The Rainbow, she demands to be put in her crib. She curls up with a smile and sleeps in late.Francie is a good sleeper too! Most nights, I stay up late waiting for the beep from her pump to let me know she’s done eating. I unhook her and flush the line, then, carefully carry her upstairs to a small crib in our room.

At the ripe age of ten, my great uncle Arlie was the first truly funny person I knew. Even back then, I understood he was part of a generation of jokesters and storytellers that was quickly disappearing. Uncle Arlie had walked straight out of the landscape of the Depression-era Ohio coal country with Homeric tales of adventure and survival. His theater was four tables pushed together in the food court at the Tucson Mall, a short walk from his double wide. Arlie traded jokes with other old timers and retold tall tales that never seemed to tarnish. His twinkling eyes would find me in the complex desert of adult conversation and pull me in with a wink. Chewing a toothpick, he’d pat his knee and pull me over. “Did I ever tell you the story…”

We toured a preschool for Wilder today. My heart jumped to the top of my chest as I watched him run around the classroom.“This is incredible!” he cried out, touching every book and peering in every bin.As back-to-school photos flooded social media, I was transported back to fourth grade.